God of War
by Vergil Creiger
Summary: Just something I wrote in my free time. Might continue it. Might not.


There is something to be said for chance. For example, if a rich old man allows a bill worth millions to fly out the window of his car, then anyone who picked it up would scratch their heads and say 'Wow! What are the odds!"

What about, then, the circumstances leading this fortunate individual to being in the right place at the right time. Let's say they were shopping. Further, this person was shopping on a Friday. Usually this lucky chap does their grocery shopping on a Saturday, but they've moved it up a day because their favorite store is closing down and offering a massive sale. This sale has actually been going on for days, but our protagonist's various part time jobs have prevented them from going earlier.

The fact that this is the last day also means that they are moving slightly faster than they would normally. This advantage is offset by the weight of an umbrella, carried due to a botched weather report from a usually reliable channel. Further adding to this young man's burden (because yes, this is a young man) are numerous bags brought from home, because bags given away at the store cost money and this man is a shameless cheapskate.

Thus encumbered, the young man is forced to walk even further due to a car crash on the road he usually takes. An office worker (who had taken a more scenic route to work because he woke up early that day) had been rammed by a waitress (who wasn't actually a waitress, but had been doing a night shift at a club to fill in for a friend) after she swerved to avoid a stray dog, who had run into the road after being hit in the rump by a stray bullet from an air gun. The bullet had been fired accidentally. The gun was owned by a man, who had just this once forgotten to disarm it when he was done with it, and had just happened to fall on it in a drunken stupor, because he had just happened to walk in on his lover with another man. The bullet had ricocheted off a wall, through an open window, off another wall and into the ass of one very, very unlucky dog.

Despite all this the young man makes it to the store, where an old man has made it there before him. The old man's daughter had randomly decided to visit, so he had left the house to avoid her husband. Because he has also been misguidedly carrying around an umbrella the man is very cranky, and our hero must wait until he has finished ranting at the clerk. Even after he leaves our protagonist stays to comfort the sobbing woman, because he's known her for a while and she's a nice girl and it's not her fault her brother has been embezzling money from her for his gambling addiction.

When he finally leaves the young man attempts to take a shortcut home, only to become hopelessly lost. He eventually gives in, lays his burden on the ground, pauses to catch his breath… and the bill flutters past.

Now, let's review. If the rich man hadn't let that bill fly out of his car, then what? What about if his bosses had been more lenient and had let him go a few days earlier, or if the store simply hadn't held their sale? What if the weather report had been accurate and he had left his umbrella at home, or if he had been willing to spend that bit of change on disposable shopping bags? What if the office worker had woken up at a normal time or the waitress' friend hadn't called in a favor or the dog wasn't in the alley or the gun had been disarmed or the man hadn't been drunk or AT LEAST fallen a bit to the right? What if the old man's daughter hadn't visited or the clerk had been a bit more emotionally stable? What if the young man hadn't taken that shortcut, hadn't paused for breath or just didn't notice when the bill floated past?

But it happened anyway. Little coincidences and circumstances all coming together to bring a man and a wad of money together. A LOT of money. That much money could change someone's life- Hell, it could change the lives of everyone they know!

But not this man. This man had been poor all his life. A law forbidding minors from working had left him with under-the-counter, underpaid jobs for years. His parents dead, his grandmother crippled by illness and his sister withdrawing from her family under the emotional duress, he was left the sole breadwinner of his family. His only outlet for his stress was an online game, the only game he'd ever played.

Continent of Magic.

Released the year of his birth, it had enjoyed seventeen years of dominance before finally losing popularity three years ago. With the servers merged and online play now completely free, even our poverty stricken protagonist could enjoy it to his heart's content. After a destitute childhood, his playing style focused on raising the stats and level of his character. He improved his character obsessively, vicariously relishing the feeling of becoming strong and independent and carefree… something he knew he could truly never be. It didn't take long for him to hit the ceiling, to reach the point where he could become no stronger, find no sharper weapon or more durable armor. The likes of dragons and krakens were flies, annihilated with one swing of his sword. So when he hit the age of majority and earned the right to work, it was no great trial to sell his account in the hopes of making enough money for a suit.

Because of this solitary, isolationist lifestyle, he had no idea of the legend he had left behind. The man who stood above all others, who conquered any enemy before him. The man who even those who had played since the game's release couldn't scratch.

The Dark Knight.

The Cryptic Warrior.

The Hunter Without a Shadow.

The God of War, Weed.

The next morning, after what would later be referred to as the Bidding World War, the young man woke up to find 3.09 billion in cash had mysteriously appeared in his bank account. He bought a house and proper medical care for his grandmother, thinking his troubles were over.

Then the men in black suits came.

A debt left over from his parents, they said. Plus eight years of interest, the total came up to three billion.

But so what? Yes, he had lost most of his fortune within days, but that didn't mean he could be stopped from doing the same thing again.

Royal Road, the world's first and most successful online virtual reality game. That was his goal.

So for a year he learned; about martial arts and the game itself. After twelve months, when he was more ready than any man had ever been, when the capsule and game were primed for him to use for the first time…

Well, just read the above.

So yeah, two million don't mean a whole lot when you're already sitting on downwards of ninety, especially compared to how you got that 3.09 in the first place. The thing is - due to all these events conspiring against him - he ended up spawning on the other side of the city after logging in later than he should have. And because the previous sentence implies that this is the real result from the aforementioned coincidences, it rather devalues the remarkability of him being in the right place at the right time in order to receive that bill.

What if, then, spawning at that very spot allowed him to experience a certain event. An event that had he appeared in any other place (that is, to have logged in at any other time) he would have missed. Which means that every twist of fate he was dragged through that day led him to that point. Even the bill becomes one of these coincidences, because if he wasn't so cheered up after finding it he would have rested several minutes longer.

And so Weed began his journey down the Royal Road.

_Welcome to Royal Road_

It was like nothing he had ever seen. Having spawned in an area close to the palace the buildings were made of gleaming white stone. Merchants shouted their wares to the sky from makeshift stalls, the crowds attending them varying in size but always diverse in nature. Soldiers so bedecked in armor they caused thunder when they moved, nobles flouncing with baseless self righteousness, messengers dashing in leather tunics, workers dressed in rags, children giggling in the filth and carriages trotting amiably through the chaos.

And the players, dozens that he could see. Of every size, shape, gender, profession, and species you could think of. There were so many sounds and smells bouncing off one another that his head span, but somehow…

Weed felt at home.

Since he had spent so long preparing he knew exactly what his first port of call would be: the Training Hall. He _did_ spend a few minutes adjusting himself to his virtual body, but Royal Road's immersion system was so good that all it did was make him a laughing stock. Though one could ask for directions, it generally met with two responses. The high class NPCs would turn their noses up and walk away, while the lower class would ask for a few coins in exchange. It wasn't much, and with enough fame they would tell you for free.

Weed, however, was an epic cheapskate, so he had preemptively memorized a map of Serabourg Citadel. A devout believer of the phrase 'time is money' he was taking the streets at a run, ducking down alleyways at top speed. He had learned several movement techniques over his training period, so even at Level 1 he flashed past muggers and cut-purses faster than they could react.

What caught his eye and made him slow down was a little thing, something he usually wouldn't look twice at. A gaggle of ragged, dirty looking children were surrounding a stray dog. While most of them were maintaining their distance and throwing rocks, one large and well built boy was beating it with a stick from up close. Rather than constantly attacking the animal he would hit it once, taunt it as the other kids giggled and cheered, then hit it again.

The dog was filthy from a lifetime in the sewer. Its fur was long and matted, the ugly grey fading to silver on its snout and belly. Its right foreleg was drawn beneath it in a limp, barely noticeable in the way it curled into itself; the way it made itself as small as possible against the wall without ever trying to fight back. The poor animal cringed away as the stick was raised, large eyes scrunching shut as it flinched from the coming blow-

"Oi!" shouted Weed. "What the hell do you think you're doing!"

Half the children scattered on the spot, while the rest made room for the intimidating newcomer. The muscle-headed child paused mid-swing, before turning towards him. "'Oo're you?" he asked, in that mangled accent only the truly stupid can pull off.

For a moment, Weed seriously considered beating him up. Not that he had a problem with hitting children (who deserved it) but it would probably attract the wrong kind of attention from the city guard. Attention he couldn't afford on his first day, especially with the ban that stopped players from leaving their starting city during the first four weeks of gameplay. Luckily, dealing with his rebellious little sister had given Weed more than enough experience dealing with recalcitrant children.

"You're under arrest!" he barked angrily. "For animal cruelty!"

The peanut gallery gasped dramatically as the bully squinted in confusion. "Eh? Bu' why?"

"Because it's so common these days to find people needlessly hurting god's innocent creatures, the royal family has made it a crime punishable by death." Weed pushed down a smirk as the boy turned white. "You're only a child though, so I think I'll just throw you in jail instead." He turned to the other children, who shrank back in alarm. "You guys can go free if you tell me how many times he hit that dog. A year for every blow sounds about right."

There was something tragic about how quickly they turned on their leader.

"He hit it ten times!"

"No, twenty!"

"Twenty five!"

"A hundred!"

"Why don't we just make it life in prison and be done with it?" suggested Weed, and got a cheer of childish enthusiasm in response.

"Hold on a sec'!" the boy shouted indignantly. "He's lyin'!" The crowd went quiet. "I mean, look at 'im! He's no' even wearing a uniform!" The bully swelled in confidence as the children erupted into murmurs. It was exactly what Weed had been waiting for.

"Tell me boy, do you know what 'resisting arrest' means?"

The child shifted, suddenly uncertain again. "Er-"

"Resisting arrest is what happens when someone fights back when they get arrested." said Weed, wearing that terrifyingly friendly smile he saved for people who hurt his family or owed him money. "And when someone resists arrest, it means I'm allowed to kill them on the spot."

"Bu-" the boy stammered. "But you don't have a weapon."

"Why would I need a weapon?" smiled Weed benevolently. "It's so much more satisfying to just rip someone in half with my bare hands." He sighed inwardly as the stick fell from the boy's limp fingers. Even two years younger than the kid was now, his sister had _never_ been this easy to bullshit. "Pick it up."

The bully flinched back. "Wha-"

"Pick it up." repeated Weed. "Then hit yourself in the face with it as hard as you can. If it's funny enough, I'll let you live."

Hesitantly, the boy picked his weapon back off the ground. He held it unsteadily in front of his face, glanced nervously at his friends (who just stared, wide eyed) then finally brought it to his face with a crack.

He hit the dirt, unconscious. There was a short silence, then-

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" screamed Weed. Immediately, the children bolted like frightened sheep. He watched them go.

Something nudged tentatively against his leg.

There was no particular reason why Weed had saved the dog. He generally had neither the time nor the disposition for needless acts of charity, unless he thought it could someday let him profit. In his own youth he often beat stray dogs to vent the stress from his life of poverty, sometimes even to death. More than once he had lured an unlucky canine back to his house for a free meal: sometimes, these dogs weren't stray. The most benevolent he had ever been to the Korean canine had been when his sister had brought home a dog that had been too small to make a proper meal. They had kept it on the condition that it remained adorable, and even then the thing was probably only still alive because the proceeds from selling his account meant they weren't hard on food.

There had been absolutely no reason for his good deed. It had been a whim, nothing more.

So it really didn't take much to walk away.

A whim: by definition, a decision that could have gone either way. Therefore, a quirk of chance. But with so many quirks of chance stacking one on top of the other, when does it cease to be mere chance...

Cease to be chance, and evolve into a miracle?

The dog lowered its foot to the ground as its hit-points recovered. For a moment it gazed after the kind human, then bounded after him with a yip.


End file.
